Page 30 of Property of Whiskey

“You know him?”

Something in my face must give me away because her attention snaps back to me. Interest. Suspicion. That look she gets when she catches the edge of something and decides she’s gonna worry it until it breaks open.

“You need to leave this alone.”

She smiles. Not the sweet kind. It’s the kind that comes right before somebody gets handcuffed.

“Now why would I do that?”

“You already know enough about Pearly Gates to know nothing good happens around it.”

“So, you do know who that was. Exactly why I’m asking questions.”

“You don’t know everything the club does.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Then enlighten me.”

“No.”

“Thought so.”

“Just stop digging.”

“Is that professional advice?”

“No.”

“Club advice?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

“Me telling you not to get stupid.”

Her brows climb higher. “Careful, Whiskey.”

“With what?”

“Talking to a deputy like that.”

“You’re off duty.”

“I can still arrest you.”

“For hurting your feelings?”

“For breathing wrong if I so choose.”

A battered truck rattles past behind us, diesel engine loud enough to drown out anything either of us might say. I wait until the noise fades, then close some of the distance between us.

She doesn’t back up.

Never does.

“You hear me, Twila?”

“Oh, I hear you. Stay away from Hell, right?”